Worthy
by Iubar
Summary: The story of Achilles and Briseis and the love that defined a nation, brought a warrior to his knees, and would define passion for the years to come. PG 13 for bloodshed and sensuality.
1. Prologue

**Prologue...**

Her locks were of a muddied ebony shade, rich as cinnamon and enlivened by ruddy streaks of gold. Her cynical smirk, filled with approbation, lanced out of clear eyes of a scorched brown, as dark and solemn as the ruddy dirt of Troy's fields. She was at once winsome and wholesome, with a sprightly darkness and innocent charm that was captivating. Though hidden in the virgin robes, she entranced others. Her slow smile, quick and energetic, only flitted into view when she was especially pleased. Scores of men had worked lifetimes to earn such trust from her beautiful mouth.  
He was of a godly blondness, honeyed and thick, haughty and impermeable, as he stood in the sun's rays and was bathed by the sun's light. Even in the jaundiced gloom of an overcast morning, he managed to shine. His eyes were of the midday sky, powerfully azure, commandingly azure,with an intensity that left a viewer seeking water to slack his thirst.With hair of a burnished ocher, he was of the earth and of the stars. He was of the golden morning and of the first touch of orange in a robust sunset. He was the beginning, and he was the end. She was his middle, and she was his life. Achilles and Briseis. Timeless and eternal. Complete.

They met as an accident. She was the wronged slave, clawing for freedom. He was the dissatisfied overlord, desperate for understanding. They should not have made sense. But they did. Come with me, my friend, to hear the story of Achilles and Briseis. To hear the hymn of the beauty and the intrigue, and to be regailed with the power of a love so strong as to leave you breathless in its aftermath. Come with me, my friend, and listen.


	2. Portraits

_Propter me mota est, propter me desinat ira, simque ego tristitiae causa modusque tuae._  
Because of me your anger was moved, because of me let it be ended, and let me be the cause and measure of your sadness.

* * *

_Gentle friends, meet Achilles, son of Peleus, and Briseis, royal cousin of Troy._

**Achilles**  
One hand slid up his back. As supple and elegant as a snake, the bare pad of a single finger traced its way along his spine, eliciting shivers. As winding as a hilly path, the finger continued its voyage. It charted a course over muscled hills and hollowed valleys, a course muddied by the dampness of ready perspiration and the delightful twisting of his form. Finally, upon reaching the nape of his neck, the hand halted in its slow journey. With devastating intent, she gripped the nape of his neck and pressed cool lips to the perfect back of it, underneath the stillness of his golden mane.  
"You're beautiful," she murmured then, and she brought the thumb across his shoulders in precise, dragging movements so that she might better feel the contours of his form. He was leaner, leaner than one would suppose. Layers of plated iron armor, cold and thin, had been piled on top of him to add girth to a man that found his strength in his quickness. Rather, he was rangy and graceful. Muscle was apparent on the ridges of his back and the breadth of his stomach, but he still managed to be slender with the strength of his build. His arms were quick and dangerous; underneath a curious palm, they flexed inaudibly, as though tensed for danger. Achilles was always a warrior. Even lounging in bed with an atmosphere of apparent leisure, his eyes quickened with warning. He was always a warrior. 

His waist was trim and muscled, and it was here that the sinew of his body gleamed. Coppery sweat clung to the formed ridges of his torso, and as he reached to pull her from him, his body shimmered with color. His flanks were streaked with perspiration; his legs were corded and lean. She loved him like this. Green eyes, of a dull green, a bleached, pale green, like the shallow water lapping on the shore, peered at him with bemusement. His answering gaze bore no such nuances. Firm and bold, they played at her seriousness without attempting to understand her solemnity. Intense and provoking, he bore none of her fineness. The subtleties of her manner, like the delicate, graceful flick of her wrist as she arranged her clothes and the special firmness to her smile, were lost on him. A warrior indeed. An animalistic warrior. As one whose life is defined purely by movements, by the dance between life and death, Achilles had no depth of feeling. As she watched him sleep after their latest embrace, she knew she would never be able to give him meaning. Another would need to inspire him to understand that life, this farce he had entered with such dejection, was about more than hurried embraces and languorous killing. He fought without pain; he loved without intimacy. Achilles was a warrior.  
When she got up to leave him, shrugging into her dress as she moved, he did not resist. His eyes remained trained on the horizon, and he he too clothed himself as he prepared himself to meet Patroclus.

_Later that day  
Achilles_

"Come now, Patroclus," he crowed as he danced backwards upon the cold ground, eyes alight with challenge. The wiry boy, more lanky than muscled and more bony than broad, seemed to be made up of skin that was too thin. He lacked Achilles' smooth beauty, uninterrupted and stunning. The mop of hair on his head, of a middling brown color, was dusty and clumsy; shocks of hair fell into his eyes and upon his forehead in a pattern without reason or explanation. Nonetheless, the shine to his eyes as he evaluated his idol was joyous and unrestrained.  
"Nonsense, Achilles," he taunted back, a ready grin on his lips, and his sword was skilled as he parried. With each instruction Achilles issued, his swordplay was improved, and the previous talent of his movements was doubled.  
"Are you scared yet, cousin?"  
Achilles' smile was white in the glare of the sun. And the manner had adopted, the kind, careless manner of a brother caring for a cherished, protected sibling, dissipated. Achilles wielded his sword easily under the harsh light of the sun. The afternoon was cast into stark relief as the sun beat down mercilessly, and soon Patroclus had tired his abilities. It was then that Achilles moved in to win.  
"Terrified," he deadpanned as he manipulated his tool.  
When Achilles switched sword hands abruptly to challenge Patroclus for the triumph, his young friend was flabbergasted. Gaping with astonishment, the warrior had no ear for Patroclus' complaints or the muttered oaths of his companion.When the lad criedout for instruction on the manuever, he could manage no more than a token response. Achilles was distracted.  
He had heard the whisper among the trees. He had heard the approach. The spear was out of his hand and launched into the path of the stranger before either could blink, and Odysseus found himself the wary observer of a death threat he had not expected. One would have expected Achilles to be soothed by his friend's arrival, but his face merely became drawn and tense in reaction. He knew what the man had come to ask. It was always the same. No matter wherein Greece, no matter the seas crossed toreachit, it would be the same.But would he go? Patroclus was forgotten. The fight was forgotten. Would he go?

* * *

**Briseis**  
Briseis turned chilled eyes onto the same horizon as she climbed the steps to the Trojan palace. Over the distant wall, she could see a more distant shore. The sea moved easily, tranquil and undisturbed, against the pristine beaches that ringed it. She longed for such serenity.  
"The waves might continue in their path easily," she reflected aloud, and her eyes were troubled and dark. "They did not have a choice in their life's course, and the moved to the only purpose for which they were meant. But what of me? I am not suited for marriage. I stood among the throes of the boys, and I felt the considering gazes, and I rebelled against the manacles already imposed." A hotness had affected the melodious timbre to her raspy voice, and it made the huskiness even more apparent. "After their slippery eyes moved away from my flanks, as they might consider a prize broodmare or sow, they turned to my uncle to offer a bride-price. My uncle. Do I not exist? Do I not have a say? Andromache," she turned respectfully to the solemn woman striding next to her. "Speak to me, dear cousin." Impulsively, she seized one of the woman's small hands and pressed it between her own in affection. 

Hector's princess was the only woman Briseis knew to run without appearing to hurry, and the cousin, gangly and freckled still, valued her counsel. With her long filly legs and high-spirited face, she was uneven and chaotic in her feelings. Nothing in Briseis suggested the docility of a union; she felt love passionately, hated with deep loathing, and danced with nimble feet daily from either of those two extremes. Her face was alive, and Andromache could not imagine it under the shroud of a wedding's veil. Even now, the flurry of her emotions spilled over in her eyes, and the gaze she had turned on her companion was glowing with ire. Andromache, rather, was the eye of the storm. Sedate and tranquil, she had clear eyes that looked with gravity and solemnity on a given situation, and the delicacy to her movements was not the grace that Briseis possessed, heedless and wild with fledgling inhibition, but of aged elegance, leather soft and trimmed with silk. Tawny curls spilled to her shoulders, dusky and subdued, and her pale lips were continually pressed into the softness of a smile. As a font of advice and clarity, Andromache was valued by all.

Even now, as she followed her wrathful cousin up the winding steps, a trace of amusement twinkled in her almond-shaded eyes. "Do you know what I think, beautiful Briseis?" she asked kindly as she stopped, one hand on the wall nearby, to rest in their energetic climb. "I think you are an idealist, and I think that you cause me eternal laughter. Apollo bless you for that." She sent Briseis a soothing smile as she chuckled, but the woman, now resting on a higher ledge and swinging her feet in amusement, failed to notice. Impishly, she sent a grin downwards and called after it, "As though you can speak, wife of Hector! Everybody knows that you married for love." With arms swinging wide over her head, she closed her eyes in rapture, just a moment, and stilled her listless feet.  
"I think, Andromache, that the worst sin would be to die without passion," inky lashes brushed against her cheek as she closed her eyes to better depict it. The timbre of her gracious voice was rapt and husky with desire. "It does not matter how. I merely want to live so that, for just one moment, I feel that it was worth it."  
Andromache's eyes were dark when she swung herself on the seat beside her companion. Dark eyes peered into the blackened eyes of the partner, measuring soul, measuring worth, in the timeless stare. Finally, she cleared her throat and, looking off into the distance, spoke.  
"I would that I could promise you happiness, cousin. I understand you, and I understand your desire," her look was vulnerable and fiercewith understanding of Briseis's pain. "You... are one that would void the world of the sunlight, merely so that you would not go through the pain of missing it each dusk. I am sorrowful for you. The world is always harsher to those unable to compromise."  
It was then that the younger made a confession. Eyes furtive and brimmed with shining unease, she told Andromache of a desire she cherished, unnamed and tantalizing, in the soul of her form. With eyes that were furtive, she murmured of a love with the strength she sought, and her lips were glad as she spoke of it.

"Do you fault me, Andromache? I know it is not your path."  
"How could I, cousin? In the face of a barren love from mortals, you seek consummation with the gods. Did I not call you an idealist? Do it. Be a priestess of Apollo. I can imagine no better occupation."  
Briseis bent her head of sienna to receive Andromache's blessing kiss. Together, with the elder princess resting her head on the younger's relaxed shoulder, they looked over all of Troy. They looked over the bakers, selling loaves of cracked wheat and sour rye; they looked over the carpenters, building into the beloved hillsides; they looked over the artisans, peddling crafts of clay and wrought metals. And finally, they looked over the sea, stretching into a future they could not imagine.  
"Now all we need is for Hector and Paris to return," Andromache murmured into her ear, at once stoic and helpless, and Briseis soon scooped up her hand in reassurance. They sat there together, one reserved about her future, the other desperate for a happier present. They sat there together as royals of Troy.

* * *

Just a note: I can do much better than this. In fact, I rely on doing much better than this in the future. But I wanted to set up a decent foundation so that my later scenes between them make sense, and thus, I have a chapter before they even meet.  
I couldn't write it traditionally because they are apart, so I wrote it in both places. Understand what I am trying to do, and review accordingly. :)  
**  
To respond to my reviews:**

_Jariah_: Thanks for the comments. I did think your story was splendid. As for spacing, I'm admittedly the strange duck who is irked by too many spaces in a story, and I thus tend to group it all together. But, I certainly see your point: to seperate the scenes, I need more. Gotcha. Next time, it will be as you say.

_Squashes_: -dances- You just made me so happy. I feel like vocab is a downhill fight here, and having somebody say that was tremendous. Now to ace the SAT...

_Priestess_: If you really want me to update, show a bit more enthusiasm. :)

_Skipster_: Here's your update! But thanks for the compliments.Keep in mind, though, that I might edit this chapter again.

_USA_: I did warn you that it was merely a prologue, so I assure that all of my chapters will be much longer- but thanks for the feedback.

_Jo_: Thanks! Here's your update.


	3. Collision

_Ergo desidiam quicumque vocabat amorem, desinat - ingenii est esperientis amor.__  
_Therefore whoever called love leisure, may he cease - love has an active nature.

* * *

_"And so their lives become entangled..." the narrator chuckled wryly and her plump cheeks, nut brown and wrinkled,opened in an affectionate smile. "They were filled with notions then of grandeur- each of them, on their own path. Briseis in her temple, Achilles with his sword. Gather around friends, and stay awhile. Here how their lives first collided...  
...On the beaches of Troy."  
_

Achilles clenched his fist with an impatience that was famous. His Myrmidons, however, gave no such rise to their own unease. Every eye remained trained on the leader standing poised at the bow of the ship; every eye watched him, breathless, lest they miss his command. Buoyed by the soft breaking of the waves upon his ship, Achilles felt every shutter and creak of the masts as the vessel hovered in the water. Achilles was distracted. His thoughts traveled back to the day when Odysseus had made his eloquent plea for Achilles' sword in the upcoming battle with Troy.When Odysseus had made his pledge, Achilles had been riddled with unease regarding the voyage. "I am no lapdog to Agamemnon's greed," he had asserted coldly, but Odysseus had not stopped there. The man, lips oily with his unctuous words and eyes shining with the vision of conquest that only he could imagine, had plied his ears with a tale of glory. And, Apollo help him, he had listened. But it had been his mother that had convinced him. The woman who had brought him screaming and bucking into the world had helped seal his fate out of it by telling him of the legend he would become if he went. And, to a man to whom life was merely an engrossing game, the prospect of it ending there in battlewas no threat. Achilles had agreed, and he had boarded the ships intent on spoils Agamemnon and his trove of kings could not fathom—glory and legend. Now, as he waited, leather on his body made stiff by the salt air and brine, he felt the eyes of his Myrmidons and considered his position. Was he Agamemnon's pet, or was he his own master? The answer was on his lips as he turned, eyes glittering, to address the men that followed him so bravely.

The Trojan beach stood before him now, haughty and contemptuous. It waited in a challenge that he was ready to meet. Even as ants swarmed upon it, hasty and frantic with the preparations they knew they must assume in defense, the beach remained bleached and pristine. The glory of it—the unadulterated glory of the beach that beckoned to him so smugly—was too much to bear. Agamemnon, the man with the luscious whores and oiled coiffed hair, lagged far behind. Waiting for him would lose the afternoon and the element of surprise. "I find I want to eat supper tonight on the beaches of Troy," he commented aloud in mild tones as he appraised the shore. Eudorus, his henchman and friend, was the only man to move. The others merely waited, breathless with anticipation, for his decision.  
Already, Hector's uneasy troops gathered on walls and paths to inspect the fleet of ships approaching, with the skewed nature of their armor showing the nature of their preparation. His breathing increased as he scanned the shoreline. _Look at me,_ it seemed to smirk. _You cannot take me without those behind you. How do you feel, great Achilles, to be suckling on the tit of Agamemnon still? Pretty babe, pretty child. You can do nothing without him. You wait for him still. _Behind him, a single warrior shifted his weight, and the answering creak in the ship sounded like the clang of a blade newly unsheathed. Sounded out of his reverie, Achilles turned to answer to the men he led, and his armor glistened with cold blue readiness in the brightness of the day.

"The Trojan beach waits there, brothers," he asserted boldly, and his eyes were alive with the flush of lust. It was the hot lust of a fight. It was the lust for blood. He leaned forward, and his blonde hair shone in the sun. Gold beyond belief. Godlike. Arresting. His eyes shone with the hotness of victory as he stood there, sword hand played between restless fingers. "Will we take it? Come, brave Myrmidons, and answer. Will we take it?" Slowly, grins broke out on the faces of the men he addressed. Thick fingers, ringed and broad as sausages, moved to the hilt of their swords. Eyes shone in faces that were broad and fleshy; mouths tightened in determination through the thickness of their beards.  
"So be it," breathed Achilles, and he leapt forth to spur on the rowers. The blueness of the Aegean lapped at their boat, heedless of the fury of his cry, and undisturbed by the blood that would soon christen it as crimson. On the land, the sentries had begun their frantic sounding of drums, solemn and uneasy, as a warning. Fisherman, in boats that were flimsy and buffeted by the power of the waves, were rocked toward shore as they frantically propelled themselves forth. Men scrambled to lace up armor and stand against the enemy. Through it all, Achilles sailed. The statue of the Sun God, great and golden, stared down upon him from the shore.

_The cloud of incense clung to the curls of Briseis. Her new life had begun not too long ago, just after her conversation with Andromache, and she had taken the oath of the virgin to seal her fate. Around her, the walls gleamed with the gilded offerings to Troy's protector. Gold to match the shining quality of his chariot as the sun; sparkling diamonds and gems to match the brilliant glint to his eyes when they twinkled in the night sky. As a priestess to Apollo himself, she found herself with a depth of fulfillment that she had not cherished as a maiden of Troy. Amid the splendor of Apollo's temple, there was a ageless serenity that she had grown to cherish. Moving about as an acolyte of the priests, the very thickness of the walls hid the beat of her footsteps, and she could believe, here in the silence, that she was alone. It was surprising to her family that she found such comfort in the silence. But she did. Briseis found that she could be sedate here, among the walls of Apollo. She found that she could be more herself here than the life outside had ever required.  
Around her, other priests, in robes of a submissive white, moved to make the prayers to the statue of the Sun God looming above her. She joined their mass as well, fumbling with her robes as she bent on her knees to offer supplication. Yearning eyes met the unseeing gaze of the great god to whom she had pledged her troth, and she sought for words to express her ardor. 'If you cannot find a mortal to satisfy you,' Andromache had once teased, 'you will turn to a god for consummation.' It was true. Briseis, who had been so disappointed in the coarseness of her mortal brethren, had finally found peace under the gaze of those without fault- the gods she had always treasured. Priam, the king of Troy, had expressed concern when she had spoke to him of her wish to be a priestess. But the idealism of the position satisfied her.  
Here, she felt, she was finally complete.  
Great and noble Apollo... She began her prayer, and she became engrossed in the silence.  
Outside, the metronome of the drumbeats sounded the beginning of a battle she did not suspect._

The first man Achilles rent open with his sword was young and frightened. Pale curls, straw like in color and texture, stuck out from his helmet at awkward angles, clumsy and youthful juxtaposed to the heaviness of his armor. The placid color to his cheeks was docile and white, and his hair, formerly so blond and fine, was bleached strawberry by the rivulets of blood. Achilles had, when he placed foot on the shore, moved forward to slice off his head, and the gore dripped off the sword with an ease that was disturbing. But the image had already faded from the mind of the greatest warrior in Greece. Too many pictures of young boys skewered by his blades would haunt him if he allowed it, and he erased the portrait from his mind before it could bear him guilt. Slowly, with the tattooing of the Trojan drums in the background, he stepped up to meet the next challenger. Behind him, interrupting the lazy beat of the drums, he could hear the screams as the Myrmidons joined him on the land. But the drumbeats ran through it all, unending, as a background to the battle.  
_Beat_. The sun shone on his sword, and his competitor was vanquished under its keen edge. He moved forward a step. _Beat._ Twirling to challenge the man behind him, he elicited frightened screams as blood, spraying in a crimson flood, gushed out from the edge of his sword. _Beat._ He leapt to bear down on a bigger man, with slower reflexes, as his weapon punctured the holes in the Trojan armor. The sword cut through his underarm, slicing arteries, and the man howled as his limb was severed. _Beat._ He moved forward a step, only to swerve and bring his sword, both hands grasping the blood-stained hilt, up to mar the face of the man before him. Bodies littered Achilles' path as he moved up the beach. Myrmidons fanned out behind him to complete the slaughter. _Beat._

_The fighting began, and she did not hear it. The thick walls of the temple kept them safe and protected. Even as the world went mad with bloodshed, their world was protected and safe. When the outside finally intruded on her solitude, she did not turn around from her prayers. The only thing she heard was a single opening of a door and the whistling of the wind as it was allowed in. There was something else there too- some faint and foreign, but she could not process the sound. Feeling only vague curiosity, she stood and turned. Her eyes were the first to meet the merciless gaze of Troy's butchers._  
_When the first of the men entered the temple, Briseis did not understand. She saw the menacing leers, and she did not understand. It was when she heard the enormity of the noise, filled with the heartbreaking tempo of the drumbeats and the soulless screams of those being murdered that she knew_. _The men being killed... She did not know them. She had not broken bread with their families or kissed the downy heads of their children. But she heard their pain, and tears began to leak down her cheeks in sorrow. Grime was showed by the blackness of the streaks her tears left, and she looked up at him with eyes that were crushed with pain. _

Impassively, one of the heavier men stepped forward. He was broad and meaty, with armor that was bronzed and impenetrable. His bushy black beard covered his mouth, naming it a soulless black hole, and his muscled forearms tensed as he lifted his broadsword. Eyes that were hard and unsympathetic glistened in his face. The priest before him, feeble and stilled by fright, was cleaved into two by the width of the sword in moments, and Briseis was yanked from her reverie. She began to scream. The silence of the temple—the solitude of the temple that she had cherished, was rent by her shriek. Unable to move from the horror, she watched as others were killed. She watched as other Greeks came in from surrounding rooms with the fresh blood on their blades a testament to their massacre. She wept for the bodies that she knew remained lifeless, and she consigned her own without a thought. Instead of looking in his eyes as he did what she knew he would, she stared at his hands. They were ornate and filled with rings. A barbarian. In a final show of disdain, her spittle landed on his cheek. She knew she would meet her death for it, but she did not care. Of all to die this day, her death would mean the least. Through it all, the drumbeats sounded in sorrow.

Ajax, brave Ajax of the Greeks, thundered off of his ship to offer aid to Achilles. The arrows that the Trojans had been firing as a meek defense were taken out by the warrior dashing to eliminate the threat. Achilles and his Myrmidons were left to continue up the beach unfettered, where the temple of Apollo rested. As the king whose entourage goes on ahead to prepare his way, the golden warrior was not the first to breach the temple. But, as he paused on the steps, the Greeks lowered their weapons in appreciation of the solemnity of the moment. And, as he gazed about, Achilles truly noticed the brevity of what he had done. Bodies littered the shores. Carrion birds, ruthless and greedy, fixed black eyes on the corpses and swooped downwards to sup. But the Myrmidons stood as victors, and he was pleased. Languorously, with a grace that was sinister, the warrior turned to consider the immense statue of Apollo that he stood beside. Calmly, quietly, he lopped off the head of statue and gazed at the fallen god in pity.  
"I will have my glory," he murmured in explanation, and his sword remained aloft. Stunned Greeks began to cry aloud in astonishment, but their voicessoon gave birth to approving cheers.

_And when she was seized rather than killed, her answering cries of pain receded into the background. Still, where her ears could hear, greater cries of torment sounded, and the slaughter continued._

"Achilles!" they cried, and he uttered his directions to the backdrop of their adoration.  
"Greeks have won this battle. Take the spoils you desire."  
"Achilles!" continued the chant. "Achilles!"  
Amid the gory expanse of death, the warrior began to smile.

**To be continued…**


	4. Caged Briseis, waiting Achilles

_Si mihi pauca queri de te dominoque viroque fas est, de domino pauca viroque querar.  
_If it is lawful of me to complain in a few words of you, master and beloved, of master and beloved I will complain of in a few words.

The sun settled into the barren coastline, determined to get its rest, and the day ended on a shore that was forever dirtied by the blood that had been spilled. Reluctant scouts from each side forged near the bodies, stealthily skittering along the water as they searched the corpses for identification that would mark them as beloved fathers, brothers and sons. The wail of the seabirds flapping overhead punctuated the dreamy silence, though occasionally, a more pungent scream shattered the numbness as a body was matched and mourning was uttered aloud. And, carried by the listless, sympathetic breeze, ash was scattered from the roaring funeral pyres already begun behind Troy's imposing walls. Chalky, sooty, endless, it was a fluttering, despondent rain that would not cease. Soldiers from Greece, newly embarked upon land, cried out at feeling it coat the hair and skin. But it was to be their penance. And, as the Trojans crooned in mourning for their dead, it would appear that the stealthy Greeks had gotten the easier end of the bargain.  
The invaders, too, searched for bodies in vain, but the breadth of them had been arriving in boats amidst the inferno and had escaped unharmed. Achilles' foolhardiness thus proved to bolster the Grecian spirit—as he walked the encampments that dusk, the boisterous cries of encouragement seemed to overshadow the occasional shrieks of sorrow. Ale loosened tongues, and hundreds knelt at his feet to touch to hem of his robes or feel the breadth of his muscle and determine that he was, indeed, real. The battle had made Achilles more than man. The battle had turned him into a god to even those that knew him well, and he had become legendary among strangers and friends alike. Only his Myrmidons, standing apart this nighttime in brusque solitude, viewed him with an unchanged heart. They knew his failures and his faults. They followed him anyway. To them, Achilles was great because he was a mortal. To them, his mortality was merely a symbol of ultimate defiance, and they clung to the memory of his humanity. He was easier to worship when there was a chance he would fall.

Nighttime came on reluctant wings to cover them all and give them sojourn to nurse their wounds. The darkness covered the rusty tinge to the beach, where blood had stained the white sand the coral color of the shells, and the darkness hid the Greeks from view. To many Trojans, as they clutched food and family alike inside their homes behind the wall, it seemed as though the enemy did not exist, and they were able to forget, for a short time, the sorrow of the carnage. The blackness of the carrion birds hunting for supper among the shorn bones of the dead were forgotten as the darkness of night erased them from sight. Only one Trojan bore the fight still in her living memory. Only one Trojan could not use intimacy or distraction to burn them from her mind.  
She was still among them. And, inside, she had not stopped screaming.

The burly hands of her captors clutched her still. One, broad and demanding, held her by the back of her neck, allowing her umber curls to flow over and through his fingers. He was coarse and crude in his movements; with thick, clumsy fingers, he bruised her tender skin with the eagerness of his movements. His one hand was pressed to her throat, like so, and the other was attached to her solemn shoulder, milky and transparent with fright underneath her torn robes. Her other master claimed her by her legs, and his smaller hands moved up and down her calves, rather like an animal unable to stand still in fright. As she was carried through the camp, her robe slid upwards, casting her bare skin into light. The flickering firelight named them bronze, and the leer on the faces of her jailors named them beautiful. She hid behind closed lids and retreated in prayer. _Gracious and strong Apollo…  
_"'Oy, friends, who said you could have the best of the spoils? I think she'd look right good in my tent, she would." One called out, though the smoldering coals of his fire were not bright enough to show his identity. Raucous laughter punctuated the dignity of the coming nightfall after his bold statement, and Briseis' eyelids trembled. _…I pray to you now for courage… _she continued in vain, and her head was bowed in supplication. Her ears, though, remained open. She heard the calls of the rest.  
"Can we have a go a' her, Thygaras?" another called to her head captor, and she shivered in response to the menace in his hopeful words. …_Give me the heart to withstand this trial…_  
"Come, men, share with us poor lonely soldiers," a single speaker had stepped forward, and he performed a jaunty bow in their direction. "The night is young, and we know how to share." A particularly loathsome specimen had stood up as well to nod at his proposal. Black hair sprouted from every orifice, but especially his chin and ears, where it curled in a loathsome, infested undergrowth in snarls and whorls. His eyes were dark and wicked. He stood apart from the others, but his leering mouth opened wider in a grin, showing the gaps where his teeth should have been. In his hands, he held a single piece of fruit, and his dull knife was cutting scraps from it as he spoke. Juice stained his mouth, beard and fingers, coating the rank smell of the rotting food still clinging to his body. When Briseis cautiously opened wary eyes, she saw him send her a wink. Disgust patterned on her china features, she pointedly turned away from his uncouth proposal. _Give me the dignity to withstand this as a lady should, dear master. Do not let these boars see my tears. _

Briseis closed her eyes and prayed for mercy. She was not unprepared to fight the bastards off that would seek to fondle her, but she was afraid of what she could not control… There were too many of them to keep back. Though she might die clawing her way to freedom, they would hold her fast and besmirch her corpse after life had taken her. She trembled not against the danger, therefore. She trembled against the helplessness of it and the knowledge that the danger was a sure fate and that no measure of rebellion could save her. The anger at it made her shake. Black eyes, rebellious and simmering, stirred beneath ivory lashes, and she quivered with fury.  
She would fight anyway. Just as her slender fingers had curled together in her palm, forming a fist inside her bonds, she heard the gruff voice of her captor address the milling masses.

"Nay, men," the one called Thygaras finally sounded out regretfully as he adjusted his position on her for a better grip. He seemed to foresee the disappointment his announcement would cause, for his tone was laden with apology. "This one 'ere has a purpose. Eudorus said t'was for Achilles himself—as a bit of a battle prize, if'n you know what I mean. None can touch her." Achilles. Meant for Achilles. The silence following the statement was sullen and agitated as the men reluctantly dispersed. But, Briseis was not similarly quieted. Briseis could not thank Apollo just yet for saving her virginity. She was to worry of the threat of Achilles now. Bitterly, she stopped her prayers to the god that refused to answer them. The nighttime swooped in, cold and vengeful, and she trembled in her aloneness. The answering spark of terror, furious and relentless, continued in her mind endlessly. When her journey was halted, she saw a tent opening in the corner of her vision, large and sprawling in decadence.  
As her journey ended in the lair of Achilles, her worn defenses broke down entirely. Chained to a post in the middle of the chamber, her tears came fast and silently, like the gushing flood that destroys without warning. The silence was too much. Chafing at bonds that rubbed her wrists raw and shiny, she was unable to even gain the slight privilege of wiping away her tears. They dripped down her face, hot and face, as a final sign of the indignity she suffered here. As the solitude consumed her, her tears were the only noise. As they sounded out, both vulnerable and plaintive, she was naught more than a child there, begging for a mother that would not come.

Achilles walked his way through the Greek camp, filled with so much opulence and decadent noise this eve. Mourning for the dead was done furtively, as though ashamed; the vast majority of the invaders caroused now around crackling flames, with gaudy whores firmly upon laps (or under them) and ale trickling down chins in their haste to gulp it down. He wore his armor still, despite its stickiness with blood, and his shoulders were uncovered in the warm Mediterranean night. Whenever his brisk stride stilled enough to beget attention, he received prompt salutes and cries of fealty, so he lingered nowhere long enough to receive notice. He sought not for praise this night. He sought for a measure of peace. In the blackness of the night, his eyes were less arresting and his hair less ornate. In the blackness he sought, he was not recognizable as the god they had named him. It was as he wished.  
He still remembered the soulless gaze of the dead as they stared up at him in a final plea. He was responsible for the men he had killed. He was responsible for the men he had led to death. With brutal fury, his cold gaze slid to the man who had caused this war and obtained his services. Resplendent in furred robes, his buildings were haphazard but ornate, and the billowing silk of his tent rippled in the breeze. Agamemnon. _I kill for glory,_ Achilles murmured to himself, and at that moment, his eyes cut more effectively in his hatred than his blade could in battle. _But that is better than killing for greed.  
_"My lord?" the cautious question was asked at his elbow, and the warrior turned from his distant inspection. Yet, so engrossed was he, it was a long moment before he could recognize that it was his faithful Eudorus waiting for an answer. In fact, it was long ago that Eudorus had approached to beget his attention, and Achilles failed to notice his presence until now. Deeply chastened, the man ran fingers through his golden locks and made a sound, deep in his throat, of apology.

"Eudorus," his friendly voice was laden with regret. "Forgive me, good friend. My mind was elsewhere."  
The smaller man acknowledged this, before respectfully bowing and again seizing Achilles' roving attention.  
"If you will forgive my saying so… You seem in need of distraction. The men found something in the temple that they thought would be pleasing. Come. Come and I will show you."

Achilles hesitated still. He longed not for jolly company this evening, and he was sure Eudorus had proposed some lark for amusement. But the man grasping his elbow was softly insistent, and he inclined his head in eventual acknowledgement.  
"As you wish, my friend. Lead the way into temptation."  
He was briefly startled when his own tent, newly erected and standing, was the destination his comrade had urged. But before his blue eyes could rise upwards in question, his tent flap was pulled open for his entrance. Faintly puzzled, he ducked his head and went inside.


	5. Admiration

_"Servitio," dixi, "nominis addis onus."_  
"Slavery," I said, "you add the burden of a name."

* * *

_One wizened hand folded in her lap, and she when she looked upwards to meet your gaze, her eyes were saddened and dreamy with lost memories. "Achilles would not love Briseis because of her amazing beauty, so widely heralded by the denizens of Troy that would have claimed her hand," the woman continued, and she spoke with an a knowing air. "Achilles would love Briseis because she knew how to love, and to fear; she knew how to rise in anger and to fall in panic. Achilles would love Briseis because she knew how to live. And as he saw her there, so lovely and so apart, he felt the first stirring of his ardor." _

When Achilles first stepped into the tent, absently drawing the silk wrappings around his thumb as he tied it shut again against the side, he didn't glimpse her immediately. The revelry of the men, boisterous and enthusiastic, played at the edge of his mind. Brisk, back and forth in impatience, Eudorus' agitated footsteps caught at his attention as the smaller man, long ago bereft of his bloodied armor, had bustled away from the enclosure. The squawking of the graceless gulls, swooping overhead as they returned to nests, clashed with the moaning of the rutting men as they laid claim to the whore of their choice. All together, his mind was congested, and he shook it so that he might perceive some clarity. Turning, his gaze fell upon her.  
His mind emptied. The sounds of the camp, always so loud and distracting, fell into nothingness. The gulls became indistinguishable specks, forgotten and unimportant against the startled nature of his mind. Eudorus, with his long jowls and worried eyes, was forgotten. The men and their crudeness were erased. In fact, as he slowly drew one hand backwards to run it through his ocher hair in dazed surrender, he thought of nothing but her and her beauty. And, out of all the conflicting noises in camp, he noticed only one now, emphatic and domineering as it consumed the breadth of his attention. The beating of his heart. Once slow and leisurely, it had always failed to speed even in the hotness of battle, where his life was on the line next to the swinging of his opponent's blade. He had nothing to risk in battle. His life was unimportant without anybody to give it that fear of loss, and as such, he had never feared a fatal blow. Slowly, made wondering by the surprise of the movement, his hand went to his heart, and he dropped to his knees. He did not know her, but he could feel her. The personality of the woman filled the room, more overwhelming than he, more awesome and powerful than he. It was in a split moment, unintelligible and sudden, that he sensed he could lose to her. And that feeling of vulnerability caused him to break down so swiftly to a position of supplication.  
_You intrigue me._

Her back was to him, and he could not see her face. But he was mesmerized by the hypnosis of her profile, and he committed it to memory. Her hair was willful and stubborn. He could see by the ruby, caustic ring to her wrists that she would have subdued it, were she able, but that the bonds had kept her from keeping the rebellious mass in hand. Thus, it spread out now, loud and crackling with static, over her slim shoulders and torn robe. Despite the thickness of the mane, it looked soft. The color itself was soft, as the night sky appears soft, as a cloud appears gentle between two exploring fingers. The russet shade was neither black nor brown, but a darkened mixture. Gold was threaded through the amount, much as golden thread is embroidered through a tapestry, and he was quieted by the majesty of such a combination. Her skin was a pale olive from her time in the temple, and it was much quieted next to his overwhelmingly bronze skin. Though it carried the golden patina of one from a sunny land, she had been quieted by her time as a priestess, and her skin bore the remains of such a sojourn. As he watched her there, he saw her blink. The transparent skin of her eyelids intrigued him, with the flickering colors shone in the rapid beating of her lids, and he watched in fascination as the quivering of her eyelashes, so inky and powerful, trembled against her cheek with the delicacy of a landing butterfly. She was made up of many contradictions. Ravished slave girl, sensual with her ropes of sienna curls, and timid virgin, clothed in the gown of a priestess. Both a contemptuous woman and a frightened child as he watched her, he was amazed by the nuances of her person and the many facets to her form.  
But her eyes stunned him most. From his vantage point, he could watch her without her being able to turn and confront him. He thus saw the changes in mood for this vixen displayed in those orbs of clarity; he saw the original outrage, and he saw her fingers flex in rage. He saw the way her eyes had lit up with fury, snarling, biting and animalistic, and he saw the way she would have killed him, were she able. But he also saw the transformation in her feelings as no enemy was forthcoming for her to unleash her fury upon. He witnessed, with a pang of sorrow, the way panic engulfed her orbs as she tried valiantly to turn and face him, but was unable, and thus had to fight an opponent she could not see and evaluate for danger. And lastly, he saw as she surrendered to fear there, roped against her wooden pole. He noticed bitterly that she shrank against it, cold and alone, as her defiance finally vanished.  
_You intrigue me. I do not know why._

When he moved forward, she slammed upright against the pole, and her eyes blackened with a mixture keenly felt fright and anger. Her pupils expanded and became enormous. Carefully, he stepped forward to kneel beside her. Her chest heaved as she attempted to move away, but with one hand, he was able to still her. A knife appeared in his fist, sharp and glinting. Her bonds were severed with only a few cuts, and he released her to her freedom there. Neither moved in the initial moments, and he remained beside her. Every gentle utterance of breath that landed on her cheek reddened it and caused it to warm with color. Sensing that this girl, with the frightened nerve of the cornered beast, would attack if pressured, he dropped to his heels and waited.

"What is your name?" he finally broke the silence, desiring to have an appellation with which to define her. The question was nothing more than a breath as he exhaled there, knowing that anything more than a whisper would upset the fragile truce.  
She turned cold eyes on him, insolent and filled with rebuke. Innately despising how ill at ease he felt, he drew in a deep breath to forestall his annoyed retort and calmed himself, soothing the flustered response he had to her silent rebellion. Squatting there beside her, he slowly wove the ropes from her stilled wrists, since she seemed reluctant to move, freeing her from her bonds. Still, though, the woman did not stir. The luminous quality to her eyes, arresting and alert, made him feel uncertain. They were luminous there, like a light was luminous. They seemed to hold a special quality, and he moved closer, studying their depths.  
"Even priestesses must have names," he asserted then, prying closer beneath her armor. She cast a cold gaze in his direction, and he resisted the urge to touch her, caress her, smooth those wayward curls and cup her molded cheeks, if only to soothe the pain in her eyes. It was burning still. He could see it. There was hatred there, slowly simmering, and there was sadness and a weight of betrayal. Achilles, as he watched her, longed to subdue her and to conquer this maiden of the raven tresses. He felt, suddenly, that it would be a difficult battle to win.  
His blue eyes deepened in promise.  
_You intrigue me. I do not know why. Rest assured, my beauty, I will find out.  
_

"You're safer in this tent than out there," he attempted to soothe her, and he was gratified that she did not shrug away his next attempt at comfort. He saw an answering flash of comprehension in her eyes, the way her gaze flickered up to his in fear, and he knew she understood. But the silence dragged on between them both, unconquerable, despite her seeming acceptance of the truth of his statement. Just as he was about to stand and go, she broke it with a venomous statement, meant to sting and wound.  
"You killed Apollo's priests," she challenged, and he heard the panic in her voice. Slowly, he turned around, and he met her gaze with a sincerity she did not expect.  
"I have killed many men. Never a priest."  
"Then your men did." A moment of silence, then, with triumph in her tone, "The Sun God will have his vengeance." She spat it out as a rebuke and a warning in one, and the hopefulness in her eyes proved that she wished him to nod his acceptance, that she might cling to his eventual immortal punishment as fact. She watched him, stunned, as he merely stood to undress. His bronze grieves were slipped off with ease, and he raised his ocher arms upwards in a show of leisure.  
"What," his voice was impatient as he turned to look at her, but his eyes were not unkind, "is he waiting for?"  
Her words came out in a flurry.  
"The right time to strike!"  
"His priests are dead and his acolyte is a captive. I think your god is afraid of me."  
"Apollo is afraid of nothing." Her defiant laughter followed the statement, but Achilles ignored it. His eyes remained on hers, pulsing with life, as he let his armor fall the floor. It fell with a clatter, creating an enormity of noise, but neither of them moved from their tense positions. He was still as he encountered her attack; she was poised to defend against his answering onslaught. Moving would be a sign of weakness. And so, they remained suspended for battle.  
But when Achilles next spoke, it was without anger. Rather, tiredness and gentleness filtered through his tone, and he had adopted the voice of the instructor for her benefit.  
"Then where is he? Tell me, my beauty, why he does not avenge you and strike me down?"  
Her silence was a sign of her initial defeat. But the smoldering edge to her eyes was a foreshadowing of her future fights. She would not let this lie. As Achilles bent down to wash, he held her gaze still, but his voice was insistent.  
"Tell me," he urged again, and a hint of a plea entered his tone. "Tell me your name."  
"Briseis."

As the blood sluiced from his skin, he paid the crimson rivulets little attention. Knowing that he was bathing the stigma of the sin that she held against him from his skin, he cleaned himself vigorously though, as a sign of appeasement and truce.  
"Are you afraid, Briseis?" he asked then, and his voice was low and rough. The silken quality to his blue eyes rippled, changing to something more dangerous, and he waited for his response. It was silly, he knew, that his heart pounded against his chest so.  
Her eyes met his with an answering show of boldness, and her voice was as slow and sweet as his had been before.  
"You tell me," she answered softly, "if I should be."  
It was a single moment they shared. To the disinterested passing of time, it mattered for naught. The oceans did not cease in their rough and careless course, and the sky did not dim with portenous pretensions because, at that moment, Briseis showed her vulnerability to her captor. But, he held her gaze. He treasured her blink, and felt it as though it had been his own against his cheek. It was merely a moment. But, as his eyes softened with real interest and her own relaxed in acceptance of his gaze, it was also a beginning.

He admired her. He admired her courage, as she defended her beliefs as the wolves pranced around her, growling for meat; he admired that her eyes did not falter as he continually urged her gaze to meet his, and that she spoke so honestly in response to his statements. He admired her innate grace, and the way she moved so beautifully even now, as her clothes her rags and her face cut and bruised; he admired that she was able to live here, in a place that would have stifled his independence, and that she was able to keep her dignity even as he toyed with her emotions.  
He admired her. And to men like Achilles, admiration was the beginning of love.  
Eudorus stepped back inside, and his scratchy, apologetic voice requested Achilles' presence at Agamemnon's side. The warrior stretched and sent her a long, studious glance. For the first time, she was unable to read his look.  
"You don't need to fear me," he spoke carefully, quietly, as Eudorus lingered outside for his master's entrance. And the girl with the uncombed hair and torn robes watched him. She watched the majesty to his arms as he turned to leave; she watched the strength in his body and the lethal grace in his form.  
She already knew it.

In a tent down the beach, Agamemnon accepted the gifts of his denizens, the gilded kings who now supped at his feet with such ease. But in the tent Achilles had just vacated, his henchmen swarmed in as invaders. Briseis looked up to scream, but the gag was in her mouth before she could move. Nay, she did not need to fear Achilles. She needed to fear every other fleabitten Spartan in this camp.  
"You must be quite the talented whore," a guard hissed down at her as a grin danced on his lips and he pulled her to his feet. "Not only did Achilles evidently enjoy you," he breathed in her perfumed scent with relish as he rebound her wrists, "but Agamemnon requests your presence. Pretty slave. If you survive the night, pay me a visit." _Agamemnon?_ Fear began to turn her stomach again. Achilles' name was uttered aloud helplessly as she turned, screamingout ofinstinct alone.  
"Achilles," she whispered brokenly when there was no answer. "Achilles."  
She turned a helpless gaze on the tent billowing around them, and she saw that there was no escape. Slowly, she exhaled, and her face stilled in the quiet of the moment. And, whenhe saw the deadly commitment in her cold look, it was their first clue to the lioness they had caged in the fawn's guise. She struggled and lashed out with her feet; he ducked and slapped her on the face, as one might repell a cur or dog. She was not his equal. She did not fight him as such. Growling, she bent and swerved to use her bond wrists to strangle him. He dodged her and clouted her again, and another stepped up behind her to ensnare her wrists.  
She could smell the rankness of their breath in the close confines of the room, and they could hear the rapid fluttering of her own as she panted, captured at last.  
Emptiness surrounded the tent where Achilles would return. Answering grimaces made up the eyes of the men she encountered as she stumbled out, surrounded by the battalions of Agamemnon's chosen, but she could recieve no assistence.  
The feud between Achilles and Agamemnon deepened.  
Another move was made on the chessboard of the gods, and the Trojan war pivoted on chance.


	6. Laughter

_Non, ego poscenti quod sum cito tradita regi, culpa tua est_  
Insofar as I was quickly surrendered to the demanding king, it is not your fault.

* * *

_Trojan beach, nightfall_  
Agamemnon's tent glittered with intrigue. Here, the vultures had gathered to preen their feathers and cackle over their spoils. Here, the noble ideals the conquerors had spouted became unwrapped as greed, pure and simple, with each loathsome smile that bedecked Agamemnon's smug features. Everywhere, jewels shone on fingers plump with fat, and whores rested on laps hard with desire. Even the kingliest of them all, clasping fine gifts for their leader in thievery, watched the nighttime outside with irises that were hungry with avarice. There was no morality here; there was no decency and no fineness of manner. All that was honorable had been left in Achilles' lair, with that vengeful lion out padding through the night now, a predator come to pay homage to a kitten. 

Agamemnon himself was beaming. Yet, make no mistake, gentle reader. His smile was not the sunny beam of the innocent child, or the incredulous joy of a twirling lover. Rather, his beam was predatory and arresting, sickly and dark, as though the condescending light was meant to bend all present to his majestic will. His beam, in fact, was nothing so much as a smirk. The patronizing words dripped from his tongue, and his perfume fouled the air around him. As kings knelt at his feet, his grin became ever wider, and his mouth panted with an appetite ever increasing. Then Achilles arrived, and his appetite was piqued. Visage visibly darkening, he prepared himself to sup.  
When Achilles stepped inside, the time around them paused. Deeply, filled with engrossed deliberation, the king watched the silhouette of the warrior who won him this night's victory, and he considered his form with perfect loathing. IAchilles/I  
Achilles, for his part, saw him from the tent opening and sent back a mirrored frown. Hatred stared at its twin in Achilles' dry, composed eyes, and perfect disgust circled warily around honest malevolence to find a chance to strike.  
Golden fingers touched lips shiny with grease, and traced the peeling skin with thoughtful fingers. Almost belatedly, whitened heads flipped back and forth to stare at the two combatants, but it was without avail.  
Achilles and Agamemnon only had eyes for each other.  
Leather armor groaned as it shifted backwards with every movement of a muscled back. But, otherwise, silence reigned. Odysseus was the only one to move, and he did so in frenzied movements as he hurried to intercept the battle-lust between his king and his friend. His hand clapped Achilles on the back, jerking his gaze from the king of king's. And, in the sudden clap of sound, the link was broken.  
Startled, Agamemnon turned away to those still kneeling at his feet and began to answer their compliments. Equally surprised, Achilles turned to the noble Odysseus to listen to his words. Time regained its footing, and the denizens erupted in chatter for the mere sake of filling up the silence.  
Life regained its pace. For the moment, the great battle was forestalled.

Odysseus spoke quietly into Achilles' ear, only showcasing his need by the urgency of the manner in which he gripped the warrior's arm. But there was more to him that the oiled ease of the words he murmured, than the carefully coiffed expression he wore on a conciliatory face.  
"Odysseus, do you come as a diplomat or a friend?" Achilles queried restlessly. With feet that would not stop their pacing, he turned and disappeared, momentarily vanquished by the shadows from the night sky.  
Odysseus sent him a cautious look but said nothing. For, in that moment, he was worried that his frustration would give vent to an anger that would serve to exacerbate the problem at hand. A single deep breath, a moment of silent reflection- he was solidly with Achilles again, ready to soothe the warrior's mussed feathers. And though anger bubbled inside of him with the notion that he might be here for naught- that the squabbling of two men, filled with pride and temper, might rob him of his greatest victory, he was able to swallow his distaste. Though born a king, Odysseus was foremost a diplomat, cunning and sly. He spoke now in this guise, and his fast, hard words fell on waiting ears.

"War is young men dying and old men talking. Achilles, you know this. Ignore the politics, my friend. Achilles," the hand he had clapped on his shoulder was poignant with meaning, and he leaned closer to arrest his companion's attention. Urgency filtered through his voice, and it was conveyed in the tightness of his touch. "Listen to me, my friend. Have I ever steered you wrong? Listen to me, Achilles, and listen not to him." But as he faded into the background, relinquishing his right to interfere, he wondered. Achilles, he found, listened to naught, whether uttered by friend or foe.

Soon, the only sound to be heard in the chamber was the fawning adoration of the kneeled kings and the booming response of Agamemnon's pride, already stuffed near to bursting. The king spoke in hearty tones, loud with mirth and self-congratulation. Achilles, for his part, rested against the crowd with nary an admirer, nary a piece of gold to mark his form as majestic. Yet, in his lazy way, he appeared every inch the leader: Achilles, not Agamemnon, had taken the beach that afternoon. Achilles, not Agamemnon, stood now with eyes resting warily on him, flicking back and forth in inspect him and judge his body as real.

Achilles, not Agamemnon, was the stuff of legends.  
Agamemnon felt it, and his gaze narrowed.

With a wave of his hand, he dismissed the men gathered there, hidden so deftly by the flickering shadow. "Achilles," Odysseus mouthed one last time as he headed for the tent opening. In the dusky opening, he was blurred and indistinct, and his mouthed approbation even more so. "Achilles."  
The warrior did not turn around.  
Raucous cries were uttered outside, the ready companion to any bevy of soldiers and the swirling smoke of fires, but silence reigned inside the tent. When the blue eyes of one finally challenged the darkened orbs of another, the clanging of blades could be heard, swift and poignant, throughout the chill evening air. _Fight me, _Achilles seemed to taunt, with a gaze that glittered in the opaque glory of the tent. _I have not yet lost. _

He watched Agamemnon and he watched as Agamemnon, after a long moment, turned his face away to deny him. More infuriated that relieved, Achilles' heartbeat quickened. He longed to end this now. Battle-lust, perhaps, still rose in his veins to intensify the galloping beat of his pulse. Watching closely, hesaw as Agamemnon fingered a long-stemmed goblet, as he traced the ornate edge of a particular vase, sliding a wet finger along the jewels. But nonchalance is intrinsically defined as uncaring, as the supple ability to rest on one's laurels with unease and unaffected grace. Agamemnon had none of that. His eyes moved too quickly away from Achilles, and his body twitched too often when Achilles ventured close. Indifference? Nay. The hungriness of his appetite was shown in every look, in every breath, in every movement he made. And the loose smirk Achilles wore, insolent and bold, served to exacerbate the tension. It was without regret that Agamemnon abandoned his tactic of uncaringfor a more effective ruse.

With a single raised finger, Agamemnon ordered all servants gone from his presence. Save one. Achilles still stood before him, and their eyes finally met.

"Apparently you have won some great victory," was Achilles' unconcerned beginning of the discussion. Agamemnon answered quickly in his eagerness, sensing weakness, searching for weakness, and seeking to sup on the anger of the statement.  
"Ah, perhaps you did not notice. The Trojan beach belonged to Priam in the morning. It belongs to Agamemnon in the afternoon."  
"Is that so," Achilles breathed softly, tracing the handle of his sword.

Their eyes connected, and Achilles began to smile his infuriating smile.  
Agamemnon's smirk grew heated.

"Be careful, son of Peleus," was the quiet murmur as Agamemnon breathed heavily through his mouth in anticipation. "Even you can lose something you will regret."

But even now, in the quiet of the tent, Achilles was a warrior: he moved without compromise, without heed of warning, and without thought. It was in his thoughtlessness that he was at his best. Indeed, this would be the first time that he had failed because of his rashness of action.  
Leaning forward in his chair, the golden kingspoke harshly into the silence.

"No kings knelt to pay homage to you tonight. No kings knelt to Achilles!"  
"Was this before or after you took the beach, great king?" Achilles requested solemly, voice quirked in warning. "I do not remember your blood being spilled along with that of my men."  
"The spoils of war belong to me!" was his answering hiss. In that moment, Agamemnon was desperate. His eyes bulged from his face, protruding like that of a fish, gasping for breath. His bulbous cheeks protruded as well, reddened with ire, and he stood to better make his point.

"You want the treasure?" Achilles hid a laugh, but it resounded inside of him, both cheeky and disdainful. Agamemnon shuddered as though he had been struck, and his breathing deepened.  
"Take it, my king. Take all of it. It is my gift for you, in honor of your great victory."

The knell of doom sounded. For one long moment, Achilles and Agamemnon held each other's gaze. Indeed, it was only as Agamemnon began to chuckle that Achilles realized his misstep. The tent opening swayed in the breeze, pulling his attention there, and he saw the shadows. His shock, his desperate outrage, kept the first sound from erupting from his throat. Indeed, when Briseis was dragged into the chamber, he was stupefied and trussed as easily as she, for his shock had rendered him useless.  
But fury soon burned away his ties. The shout of utter rage, helpless rage; the frothing of unadulterated fury soon spouted up, burning through hisskin as a force that was uncontainable. His fingers, the fingers that were shaking with absolute desperation, clawed for the hilt of his blade, and the ringing of the crystal in the air split the silence. Agamemnon stood, wreathed with uncaring. Now, he was the epitome of nonchalance. Despite the metal clutched in Achilles' fingers, he was the one with the upper hand. He had found his enemy's weakness. Accompanied by a sudden flush in his cheeks, his beam returned.  
"How," he whispered as he sauntered down his dais to run a hand along the breadth of her hair, "I love to win."

_Achilles was cornered. Like the feral beast, he spun to strike, but no enemy was forthcoming. His breathing was ragged, and his eyes tore open his competitors, at once slicing them without twitching his blade. When he did pull it forth, eyes all around him widened. Soon, the only sound in the chamber was his breathing, hot and incoherent, and the soft, entrancing sound of sweat hitting the floor in rythmic pings. Rolling down the faces of the guards, they struggled to meet the gaze of Achilles and failed. There was nothing as hard to encounter as thewrath of a god enraged.  
_  
He traced the lovely line of Briseis' cheek carelessly, aware that he was putting dirty fingerprints on priceless marble. But he thrilled in the ability to coarsen her. He thrilled in knowing that every touch placed on her would aggravate Achilles, and thus, he ran knowing fingers along her cheek in slow rapture. She spun from him and fought. He merely laughed.

_Laughter, Achilles later realized, would always be the sound of defeat for him. Nothing had ever pierced his armor like the sound of the cries of the simple slave girl, untried and uncared for, who stood now between two great men. His answering cry was formed on his lips, though it was never uttered. Pain shone in his eyes. He had lost.  
"I warn you, brothers," he panted, though his voice was precise and controlled. "I have no quarrel with you. But if you do not release her, you will not live this day." _  
_He crouched there, wondering at this sensation aflutter in his heart- was this panic, this sensation of wonderous pain? He only knew that for the first time, as he pointed the tip of his sword, it quavered.  
Through it all, Agamemnon's laughter continued to sound._

**To be continued...**


	7. Separation

A single quivering sword, a million bated breaths. Achilles was poised to strike, poised to ruin. And though Briseis inwardly lamented her own pain, she cried out to stop him. A single gasp, unnoticed and unheard. A single moment passed, a thousand heartbeats fluttered, and she breathed in deeply to ready her courage to try again. The next time she shrieked her command, all bore witness to its testimony. Even the crouched feline, her noble protector, paused. Beneath her lowered eyelids, she remembered the flickering images of the thousands murdered as he smiled, and her ire cooled into mournful, solemn contempt. One such as he would never save her. She would not allow him. Fear left her. Despite the hulking guards keeping her chained, she tossed her head and addressed them as a lady, as a woman, as a princess of Troy. Her people had been slaughtered and raped, their virtues pawed, their religion spat upon and dirtied. Her rage rushed in. She could find the voice to address this grand audience. She could show them that Troy still had strength.

"There will not be more deaths on my account," Briseis commanded quietly, in a voice that rose with confidence as her halting plea continued. Soon, it swelled as her fear receded, bold and enraged with the weight of her scorn. Her low voice was deceptively low, deceptively pleasing. Like the embers of a dying fire, she still bit at proffered hands from behind her guise of safety. She was truly Apollo's mistress, was this burnished warrior. And, despite the lack of gold dripping for her brow, despite the lack of jewelry twined in her curls, she was truly majestic.  
"I submit to this willingly. I gave myself to Apollo, that I might live in his service." Willing her fingers to stop their trembling, she tightened them into fists as she schooled her breathing. One breath in, another out. She could do this. _Give me strength enough for this. Give me strength enough to look at them both as I make my promise.  
_"Is this any different? I sacrifice myself now to this, that more might live."  
_You are merely his conquest. He cannot love you,_ she repeated again and again, a desperate manta, a solemn oathBut _o_ut of the corner of her eye, she saw her warrior sag in defeatas though his strings were cut.Achilles had fallen. Somewhere inside of her, she began to ache.It was with difficulty that she brought her eyes from his, eyes smarting from a fire suddenly quenched, to meet Agamemnon's hungry look. And she was stunned, in a dispirited way, to find them empty. Dripping tunnels. Rank, soulless passageways of ebony and gray, of chalky white and deep charcoal. Was this shell to possess her? Was this throne to be her master? She thought of Achilles then, of the way he had regarded her, of the dignity he had shown her. Looking in his eyes was more difficult than looking in Agamemnon's. She saw his pain: it glimmered in the way he stood, still crouched in a fighter's stance, in the way his eyes challenged hers then, in the way he was already shaking his head, denying her request. She saw that he was broken.  
_You hate him, remember? Pay him no mind. _But she could muster no more contempt. Pity was readily available now, as sympathy was, distributed freely to them both. Serenely, she shook off the men holding her and stepped forward. His blue eyes still held her gaze.  
"My Achilles. If killing is your only talent," she whispered in apology, feel the weight of anguish flood her form, "that is your curse."

The moment passed, the spell was broken. But she watched in revulsion, in fascination, as his sword plunged into the ground to pierce dirt, not life, in symbolic acceptance of her choice. _Forgive me,_ she whispered inside. But as the men seized her, as she was wrenched forth from her reverie and brought back into captivity, she wondered if she could forgive herself.  
She was the first person, the only person, to ever defeat Achilles. But there was no triumph in her aftermath. He had single-handedly slaughtered hundreds of her kin, stood on a beach in the open sunlight to mock her gods, brashly challenged her way of life. He had stolen her peace and held her in slavery, but she felt no more anger... She felt only sadness, for him and for herself. She sensed that she had sentenced them both.Agamemnon stood and walked beside her, devouring, supping, leeching her life. Suddenly desperate for hope beside such bleakness, she craned her head backwards just once more, trying to glimpse Achilles' face. But he was already gone, lost into the crowd.The king's hand was on her face then, on her lips, touching her eyes, unbinding her hair, demanding attention, demanding obedience. _Achilles_, she thought once in stark, stunning want. _Achilles_.  
Behind her, she heard Agamemnon breathe through his mouth, deeply and fast. Brushing her robes at her side, straightening her posture, she turned as a queen might and faced him.

Achilles, back in his tent and pacing, prowling, demanding restitution, was the first one to scream.


	8. Together again

It did not happen at all as she had suspected. The war between Agamemnon and Achilles ran deeper than she had believed, deeper than she had realized, deeper than she could comprehend. Arrogance was coupled with a hatred that coursed through each individually, fueling them and powering their struggles. It polarized their paths, bitterly opposing to reconciliation. For a long while, she had feared that she would never see the light of day again, so cold was Agamemnon's sense of justice, so furious was his simmering sense of retribution. Vengeance was the pawn of the victor, and each sought, under the guise of nonchalance, to unseat the other. They were Greek ways, Greek feelings. But though she could not account for the peculiar custom of hiding venom beneath polished words and ornate threats, she soon began to see the pitiable carnage of such feuds. Achilles had refused to fight after the king had seized her, and that was the first moment her heart had softened. _Achilles,_ she had cried out inside.

She was apart from him in her ornate prison, trapped in a way she had never been before, but she imagined that she could see him clearly. How often she thought of him, when they were both alone! He would be pacing, she sometimes surmised; he was the sort of man to pace. He would be brooding, though, she knew that for certain. His eyes would be of fire and lips would be bruised in the faded sun, with shadows of mire and gloom, waste and sorrow, spun around him in his hazy musing. Briseis had thought of him often, despite the bloom of guilt in her gut when she did so. It had only taken hours of loneliness, wheedled away by a knowing mind, to make her vow wane. So quickly, Apollo had been purged from her body! So quickly, she had scorned her purity! And though Briseis recognized it, though she recognized her own commonness, she always reverted to the fantasies again for the comfort it brought. Virginity had been a lonely bedfellow, and when she was apart by herself, it was only a longing for Achilles that could bring her ease. Briseis did not need Achilles to tempt her into sin. She had fallen there by herself, and even then, cognizant as she was of her own depravity, the woman had thrilled to the moments when she remembered a new gesture of his, a new action he had done on her behalf, because of the way it had buoyed her spirits.

But the confinement had lasted less time than she had imagined. Agamemnon, for his bluster and promise, had never touched her, and the war turned tide in a lamentable direction for her insatiable king. One night, his skin had gleamed with more than perfume and oil- blood and sweat had been slick on it, coupled with a weary expression that hinted at grave loss. She had looked down at her hands, hiding her painful, inexpressible joy behind her fall of ocher curls until his scathing command had replaced her happiness with a growing sense of fear. Petulantly, he had cast her from his tents, throwing her as a bauble to the men that swarmed around. She shuddered to remember the lurching, confusing pain of that night: they were touching her intimately before she could breathe, before she could think, whispering more intimate promises, worming fingers into her, coarsening her, deforming her.  
When the night had become a sickening black, studded with mocking stars, Briseis was certain that the men would do what Agamemnon never had, what none other Achilles deserved to. But then- oh! She felt his grip, and she remembered the unique pattern of his touch, and his broad hands cupped her under her elbows and cradled her in his arms, broad, unyielding, comforting, controlling. She didn't think; she couldn't think. All she could do was, despite her former objections to his presence, was turn her face towards him, mutely allowing him to bear her hence, as he sheltered her from harm.

Now, she sat on the bed while he knelt at her feet, supplicating. They did not speak, for she had no words, and he had no courage, not here, with the immensity of the recent past between them. His golden head was bowed, already retreating, already giving her victory. With an otherworldly sense of need, she placed her hand on his shoulder and ran it down his arm, beseeching him to look up and meet her gaze.  
He did.  
And a truth moved between them, deeper than words could have expressed.

She was acutely aware of her surroundings- of the plush bedspread beneath her, of the muted talk and laughter of the camp, of the whimsical musing of the wind as it fluttered- but when she first urged him against her lips for a kiss, she lost all sense of time and space. His big hands moved upwards to hold her head, cradling it in his palm as he moved upwards on the bed to assume control. What she would remember later was his eyes, the peculiar vibrant blue light from them, the impossible, unsuspecting joy from them, as they first met hers with truth.


End file.
